


missed connections

by spearbi



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, LSD, M/M, Soulmate au!, art student seungmin, romance but also Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26499616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spearbi/pseuds/spearbi
Summary: How does one tackle art finals, house parties, emotional constipation, and an elusive soulmate?Kim Seungmin has no idea, but if he wants to find his Muse he'll have to slam into his feelings with the force of a high school quarterback, or whatever.He's never been great with metaphors.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Kim Seungmin
Comments: 36
Kudos: 230
Collections: Seungmin-Centric Ficfest





	missed connections

**Author's Note:**

> [listen](https://open.spotify.com/track/4R9KztunyNTH13KtAqePLp)

_a crystal ball and the odyssey_

_did you find whatever you were looking for?_

_had to open every single door_

_i get the feeling you've been here before_

**missed connection, the head & the heart **

**»»————- ➴ ————-««**

**FOOTAGE FROM MUSE GLOBAL STUDIES, 2005**

_A cool, clinical voice asks the question off-screen. “How did you know?”_

_The two women exchange a glance. They seem to be almost perfectly in sync; the older one, a lady with long, dark hair, speaks first. “It was like waking from a dream I’d been sleeping in- living in- my entire life.”_

_The younger woman tilts her head and smiles. “The moment I saw her, it was like the whole world held its breath. It was lightning striking the same spot twice. I just knew; I felt it in my bones.”_

_“A_ rightness,” _the older woman whispers, reaching out to squeeze her Muse’s hand. “I knew there was no going back, after that. I couldn’t possibly want to.”_

_“And what is it like living together now?” The voice asks again. There’s an unmistakable edge to the voice, this time- perhaps envy._

_“Paradise,” the women say at the same time. They pause, look at each other, laugh. “It’s like paradise.”_

**»»————- ➴ ————-««**

**DAEGU, KOREA. 2008**

There is a funeral going on across from the cafe. It makes sense, because there’s a cemetery there, but it also doesn’t make sense, because it’s a cemetary surrounded by retail stores. It just doesn’t feel right, looking at it. 

“It’s such a terrible thing,” the cafe manager informs a mother and her son. “Cancer, it was. And so quickly, too… a shame. She really was the kindest woman I have ever met.” 

The mother tugs at the neck of her summer dress uncomfortably. They’ve only come inside to escape the sudden and torrential rain. Her son shoves his hands in his pockets and ambles over to the rain-streaked window to peer out at the procession, clearly bored. 

The manager, sensing that he’s further dampening the mood, switches gears. “Would you like anything to eat? Our pastries were made fresh this morning.” 

The mother opens her mouth to say _Ah! No thank you, I’m dieting right now,_ but is interrupted by her son‘s sudden cry. She rushes over, leaving the manager standing there awkwardly, a pastry in each hand. 

“Jisung? Jisung, what’s wrong, darling?” She ghosts her hands over his little frame, searching for a cut or scrape or bump, but finds nothing. Han Jisung can only cry, and cry, and stare out the glass window, chest aching something awful. 

They don’t end up getting the pastries, and they don’t end up coming back. This is the first mistake. 

There will be more. 

**»»————- ➴ ————-««**

**SEOUL, KOREA. 2021**

There are three people in the painting studio to witness Kim Seungmin break down: Chan, a disgruntled looking first year with paint up to her elbows, and himself.

It’s the naked seagull woman that does it for Seungmin. _That’s_ what breaks him. He’s not even angry looking at the sculpture, because whoever made it clearly put a lot of effort into it. it’s almost anatomically correct- as anatomically correct as a woman with the body of a bird can be, anyway. 

Seungmin’s voice is barely audible. “There is so much pain inside of me right now.” 

“The thing is,” Chan muses, arms crossed, “Is that it’s not _bad.”_

“I _know_ ,” Seungmin says. 

Chan tugs at the ring in his lip, leans in a little. He dresses like the part of an art professor's assistant: frayed jeans, paint-smeared sweater. Multiple piercings. “Like- he put in the whites of the eyes and everything. There’s _mascara_ on her carbon eyelashes.” 

Seungmin closes his eyes. There’s a headache forming around his temples, like a thousand tiny bulls are stampeding inside his head and scrambling his brains into an omelette. “Yeah. I just don’t get why he gave a _bird_ a _human_ body and not the other way around. That’s not even what the project was about!” 

“Eh,” Chan says, and straightens up. “Prof gave him a ninety, though. Guess it was good enough for her.” 

Something in Seungmin’s brain breaks. “A _ninety?”_

Across the studio, the first year peers out from behind her canvas, expression murderous. 

_Sorry,_ Seungmin mouths apologetically. He repeats himself again, voice soft. “A ninety? She gave me a solid B+ on _that.”_

Chan follows his accusing finger to the far wall, where Seungmin’s magnum opus rests. It’s _perfect._

The theme was _anticipation:_ Seungmin gave it anticipation and _then_ some. Seungmin knows this because he spent approximately one hundred hours on it and repainted the entire thing three times. 

“It’s good,” Chan says slowly. There’s a tone to his voice that Seungmin doesn’t like. An unspoken _but..._ that Seungmin can hear, no matter how neutral Chan tries to sound. They’ve been friends too long for that. 

Seungmin glowers. “But?” 

Chan grins, eyes sparkling. “Look. Technically speaking, you’re one of the best artists I’ve ever seen, and you haven’t even graduated yet.” He holds up a finger as Seungmin opens his mouth to argue. “Shh. I’m not done yet. Anyways, you have an extremely developed skill set: everyone knows that.” 

He walks over to the painting, ghosts his fingers over the raised acrylic strokes. “But there’s something missing.” 

Seungmin steps back, looks at his artwork with a critical eye. There’s a glass about to shatter, five inches off a counter. Warm light streams in from the window in the background, diffusing gold onto the cabinets and utensils. 

It could be a photograph, and he says so. 

Chan snaps his fingers together. “Exactly! That’s it, dude. It could be a photograph. It lacks _life.”_

“What,” Seungmin says. “What does that _mean.”_

Chan pats him comfortingly on the shoulder. “It means that you need to find a way to put _yourself_ into your art.” 

Seungmin groans and drops his head into his hands. “I quit. I’ll go and be a doctor instead; that’s what my father always wanted.” 

“You’re such a drama queen,” Chan says. “All you have to do is find a muse.” 

Seungmin cracks one eye open. “A muse?” 

**»»————- ➴ ————-««**

The internet defines a muse as:

  1. _to think about something carefully and for a long time,_
  2. _a person, or an imaginary being or force that gives someone ideas and helps them to write, paint, or make music:_
  3. _a phenomenon discovered in the late twentieth century that cannot be explained by modern science; see ‘soulmates’ for more information._



But Seungmin knows this already. Art history is filled with stories of great artists and their muses, all ethereal women draped in silk and feverish inspiration. So he knows. All the greats have them. Even rich narcissistic people who paint blank canvases and sell them for millions of dollars have them. 

They’re passion in human form; they’re what allows the art to flow from the brain to the finger to the canvas. It can also be a song, or a sound, or an experience that lasts two minutes. 

And- Seungmin hesitates when considering this- Muses can also be soulmates. 

It’s the third and most widely known term for _muse._ They’re a phenomenon that affects twenty percent of the global population. 

_The soulmate discovery._

Nobody knows how it works, per se; it has scientists stumped and philosophers gleeful. 

Muses are, at their core, people who fit with each other perfectly- two puzzle pieces made specifically for each other. They push each other- drive each other- to near perfection, always complimenting each other, always knowing each other. 

_A match made in heaven,_ romantics say. _An aberration of the human mind,_ religious organizations cry! 

Seungmin’s never met a pair in real life- most, for some reason, are found in the southern hemisphere- but he’s studied them in his arts courses, seen footage of them in lecture halls. 

Muses move like they orbit around each other, look at each other as though the entire world is held suspended in their eyes. 

There’s an almost otherworldly feeling to them. Seungmin thinks about it and aches, sometimes. 

The different terms don’t matter to him anyhow- because either way, Seungmin doesn’t have any sort of muse. If he did he’d be getting nineties on all his projects. 

So he has two options: one, to find a muse- an _art_ muse, mind you- before the semester ends- or two, which is throwing all his morals away and crafting little naked bird-people sculptures. 

“You will _not_ stoop that low,” Seungmin vows to his reflection, hands gripping either side of the sink. “You are better than that. Just find a muse. Find something that drives you. Don’t condemn yourself to a lifetime of naked animal-people figurines.” 

Changbin knocks three times on the bathroom door. “Are you done with the villain monologue? I need to piss.” 

“Shut up,” Seungmin tells his roommate half-heartedly. “I’m doing my positive affirmations.” 

“Okay,” Changbin says, an edge of desperation in his voice, “Can you do that somewhere other than the only bathroom on this floor that has a working toilet?” 

“Fine,” Seungmin says breezily, unlocking the door and sweeping past his friend. “But only so you won’t pee all over the floor again.” 

“Hey! That was _you.”_

Seungmin shrugs and falls backwards onto his bed. “I don’t remember it being that way.” 

There’s a pause, and a sigh. “That’s because you thought the edibles Felix brought over were _normal brownies,_ Seungmin. And you ate _all of them._ I’m surprised that you’re still alive.” 

“Weed can’t kill artists,” Seungmin mutters. “Maybe I ate them all on purpose.”

“You were high for five days.” 

“How _is_ Felix?” Seungmin says, the cheerful inflection of his voice doing little to hide the abrupt subject change _and_ undercurrent of steel in the sentence.

Changbin laughs nervously. “I don’t have to answer that.” 

Seungmin wrinkles his nose and stares up at the ceiling. There’s a blob of oil paint shaped like a snail up there, somehow. “So you _didn’t_ confess your burning and borderline embarrassing love for him last night?” 

“No,” Changbin hisses, and then, after a long pause: “We touched hands.” 

Seungmin gasps. “On _purpose?”_

“I tripped down the stairs,” Changbin admits. The toilet flushes sadly. “I was slightly drunk. But it’s progress!” 

Seungmin doesn’t even say anything to that, because he’s not evil. He keeps his mouth shut because he’s a good friend. 

Changbin swaggers out of the bathroom, expression pained. “Don’t laugh at me.” 

“I’m not!” Seungmin gestures to his face. “I’m being _nice.”_

“You look _constipated!”_

“Whatever,” Seungmin says. “Just tell him, dude. I don’t think he’ll reject you. Aren’t his roommates hosting another party tonight? Tell him then.” 

Changbin swallows. “Fine. Only if you come with me, though.” 

Seungmin laughs this time. “No way. Do you think I’m the type to play beer pong and do keg stands?” 

“You’d probably go and drink different types of coffee for fun, actually.” 

Seungmin wisely decides not to mention the coffee enthusiasts club he’s been attending for the past four months. “Probably. Do you really want me to go with you?” 

Changbin looks up at him, eyes round and expression reminiscent of a kicked puppy. 

Seungmin caves. He always does, when it comes to Changbin. “ _Fine.”_

“Yes!” Changbin does a happy little dance. “You can’t wear your art clothes, though. Or any turtlenecks. Or-,” 

“Don’t worry,” Seungmin says numbly. “I’ll dress badly enough to blend in with the locals. There are some jorts in my closet.” He covers his face with his hands. “I can’t believe that I’m doing this.” 

“Friendshiiiip,” Changbin sings, grabbing Seungmin’s hand and twirling him around in a clumsy pirouette. “That’s what friends are forrrrrr…” 

Seungmin sighs, and allows himself to be spun. That’s just how he always moves: with the tide, easy and gentle. 

He hates parties, and he hates crowds, but for Changbin he’ll go. 

**»»————- ➴ ————-««**

This close to campus, the rental houses all look the same: like drunken men on wobbly feet. The porch steps creak and groan ominously under Seungmin’s sneakered feet; the front door is covered in dirt and is hanging by one hinge. 

“This is it?”

“Uh, yeah,” Changbin says nervously, hands jammed inside the pockets of his leather jacket. He’s fidgeting with his rings again; Seungmin can see his forefinger pushing the band of steel around his thumb. “It’s not too bad.” 

_It looks like a serial killer lives here,_ Seungmin thinks. “It could be worse,” he says instead, reaching out to hook Changbin’s arm through his. “Come on. Let’s go find Felix.” 

It’s worse. The inside of the house is sticky-hot and smells overwhelmingly of cheap alcohol and cheaper body spray. It’s too loud, too cramped: already Seungmin can feel his social battery draining. Being around so many people is exhausting. 

Most of his friends don’t understand just how draining it is for him to just be _present_ sometimes, but Changbin knows. 

“We can leave if you want,” he whispers to Seungmin, gaze soft. “You don’t have to, you know- I just-,”

Seungmin grins. “I think I can handle one party, Changbin- it’s more bearable than listening to you whine about how badly you want to hold hands with Felix.” 

Changbin frowns and flicks him on the forehead. “Okay, asshole. Let’s go get a drink.” He curls his hand around Seungmin’s and pulls him across the crowded room to the drink table, which is just a bunch of cardboard boxes with warm beer cans scattered across. 

There are less people here, on the fringes. Seungmin says a silent prayer of thanks and leans over to pick up what seems to be the last can of vodka. 

And then it happens. 

It could be a movie-magic moment, if you ignore the location: A hand, reaching for the same can, brushes against Seungmin’s. 

A thousand electric bees tingle up his fingers and into his arms, fizzing in his blood and making his head spin. 

His mouth goes dry, and suddenly all he can hear is the quick _thumpthumpthump_ of his own heartbeat. 

_Check._

“Oh, sorry,” a voice says, warm and low and faintly amused. “I guess we both have good taste. You want it?” 

Seungmin looks up slowly. _Checkmate._

Game over- everything Seungmin has ever known and understood explodes into glass, because angels are _real_ and one is _standing in front of him_. It’s the weirdest fucking feeling- Seungmin feels like a live wire, feels like he’s dunked his head in cold water. 

There’s an angel in front of him, and he’s wearing ripped denim jeans and an extra large black tank top. There’s a mole on his cheek, Seungmin notes, and a shiny piercing on his right eyebrow. His eyes are dark and warm and worried, as is his voice- “-kay? Hello?” 

“What?” Seungmin manages to croak. 

The angel smiles a thousand watt smile. Somewhere, thousands of flowers bloom. The decrepit house feels almost homey, now. All thanks to one smile. 

Seungmin now believes in love at first sight.

Seungmin now believes in _love._

“Are you okay? You look a little… out of it.” 

Seungmin blinks rapidly. “Yeah- I. Sorry. I’m fine.” _I’m not fine,_ he wants to scream. _I don’t think I’m an atheist anymore! I think I’ve fallen in love! Why isn’t anyone else freaking out!_

“You want it?” The angel extends a long, toned arm. 

_He’s offering you the drink, stupid. Take the drink. Move your hand!_ Seungmin moves his hand and shakily accepts. He can’t fight back the shiver that rolls through him when their fingers brush again, though, and hopes that the angel doesn’t notice. 

“Thank you.” 

“Yeah,” the angel says softly. “You’re welcome.” 

They stand like that for a long moment, fingers barely touching. Seungmin stares at him, wide-eyed and rabbit-frozen in shock. 

“Okay,” the angel says, one side of his mouth pulling up into a lopsided grin. He almost looks _sad._ “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He lets go of the can, eyes twinkling, and disappears back into the throng of people. 

Seungmin sucks in a sharp breath as the noise and scent of the party slowly fades back to normal; the electricity fades to a faint tingle. 

He looks down at the can, chest warm. _Muse Draft!_ the label reads. _100% natural!_

“Oh my god,” Seungmin whispers. _That was my Muse._

He understands those grainy video interviews of people across the world, now. _It was like being hit by lightning,_ they said. _The world shifted perfectly into place._ He understands- oh, god, does he get it. He can feel it now, running hot through his blood. 

There’s that familiar, persistent ache of sudden inspiration cramping his fingers. He has to go. _He has to go._

He spins, searching for dark hair and a leather jacket in the crowd. _Go,_ his inner compass screams, spinning wildly. _Go find him!_ And Seungmin wants to- he needs to- but the angel is gone, not a trace of him left behind in the rickety room. 

Seungmin turns and walks shakily back to Changbin, who’s leaning against a cabinet, Felix by his side. “I have to go,” he announces, and the two turn to look at him. Changbin flushes; Felix narrows his eyes and peers into Seungmin’s face. “Your pupils are hella dilated, dude. Did someone give you molly?” 

“What?” Seungmin sputters. “Molly? Who? No. I-look. I just have to go. To the studio. I forgot about a project that’s due tomorrow. I’m really sorry-,” he breaks off as Changbin gently turns him around and pushes him in the direction of the front door. “Oh. Okay. Have fun?” 

Changbin gives him a slow, soft smile- the same smile that Felix is wearing. “Yeah. Thanks for coming with me, Seungmin. I’ll be fine.” 

“I’m happy for you guys,” Seungmin says honestly, shooting them a thumbs up, and dashes out the front door. The night air is crisp and cool; it does nothing to assuage the bonfire in his chest. He holds the can of vodka close to his chest, and he _runs._

The world hasn’t changed for anyone else, only him. He’s the only one running the empty streets, the only one whose heart is rattling inside his ribcage like it’s trying to escape. 

_Everything_ has changed, and no one has noticed. 

He doesn’t even know how he reaches the studio. At this hour, the room is empty, most students long gone. 

Not him. 

Seungmin’s fingers shake over his drawing pad as he snaps one, two pieces of willow charcoal in half before finally getting a proper grip. It’s as though something is possessing his body: he draws for hours, until time is nothing more than thread that he spins between his hands and his eyelids grow heavy. 

Seungmin’s head spins and his chest aches, and he draws, the charcoal sliding across the fine-toothed paper over and over and over, crescendoing into something bright and blazing and _new._

Chan walks in at some point to prep for the morning class. Seungmin hears his coffee hit the ground before he sees him. “Holy fuck,” Chan breathes. There’s something truly shocked in the way his stands, hands frozen and mouth open. “Seungmin, holy _fuck.”_

“I found him,” Seungmin says quietly, helplessly. “I found my Muse.” Chan already seems to know _what_ kind of muse, if the expression on his face is any indication. 

Chan picks up one of the dozens of drawings. “This is him?” 

“Yes,” Seungmin says. It’s not good enough. It doesn’t do him justice- all Seungmin has to go off of is a fleeting encounter, a hazy memory. But it’s almost enough. 

Chan was right, before-there’s a life to the angel, now, his wings spread and eyes hungry. He looks like he’s going to walk right off the page, lines of charcoal swirling around him. 

He looks more than human. 

Chan swallows. “Do you know him?” 

“No,” Seungmin whispers, fighting back the inane urge to cry. “I went to this shitty party with Changbin last night, and he was _there._ It was like lightning. He was _lightning_ , Chan.”

“I can tell,” Chan murmurs, expression contemplative. “You need to find him, Seungmin. These drawings are on a whole different level from your usual stuff. Can I take a few of these to show the prof?” 

Seungmin nods, dazed. The can of vodka sits next to his left knee, unopened. He can’t drink it now. “I didn’t think they were real,” he says belatedly, an afterthought. “I thought it was bullshit.” 

Chan turns and gives him a faint smile. There’s a hurt deep in his eyes. “I used to think that too.” 

Seungmin knows that look. It’s the one his father wore at his mother’s funeral, wore for years after. Hurt of that magnitude can only grow from great loss, so he chooses his next words carefully. “You found one?’ 

Chan’s voice is barely audible. “I did.”

He has an advanced painting class at two-thirty, so Seungmin staggers back home, drawings safely filed away. The vodka goes into a drawer by his bed.

He falls asleep almost immediately and dreams fitfully, legs tangling in the linen sheets and arms tucked close to his chest. 

Seungmin dreams in kaleidoscopic fragments, colours sharp and saturated. 

There’s a beach, and sand, and a blue blue sky. 

The angel is there in flashes, partially obscured by the sun overhead and the smell of sea salt. 

“I need you,” Seungmin says, words spilling from his mouth like molasses, slow and sweet. He curls his toes into the sand. “Where are you?” 

The angel laughs, sunlight sliding over his cheekbones and bare shoulders. “Where are _you?”_

“I’m _here,”_ Seungmin cries, frustration welling up inside him. “I’m right here!” 

The angel shakes his head sadly, brown hair flopping gracefully over his eyes. “That’s not true. If you were here, I’d be able to do this.” 

Seungmin watches, horrified, as the man reaches out to touch Seungmin’s shoulder- and passes through it entirely. 

“See?” he says, withdrawing his hand, expression rueful. “We’re both just here temporarily. Holograms.” 

Seungmin sighs. “Makes sense. It’s too nice here for it to be real.” 

The angel throws his head back and laughs. Seungmin can _feel_ it echo in the air like liquid honey. “It is.” 

“What’s your name?” 

“I never thought you’d ask,” the angel whispers, leaning in close. “It’s-,” 

Seungmin wakes up. 

“Fuck,” he says, with feeling. “ _Fuck!”_ Across the room, Changbin snores; the old ceiling fan rotates slowly overhead. Somebody slams a door down the hall. 

Already the dream is slipping away from Seungmin, the conversation swirling down the drain in his head; desperate not to lose it, he reaches over the bed for his sketchbook. 

His fingers ache, but he picks up the pencil anyways. 

**»»————- ➴ ————-««**

“Seungmin?” 

Seungmin looks up. Yang Jeongin grins and taps his ink pen against his sketchbook. “You were falling asleep.” 

They’ve been partnered to draw each other; Seungmin had offered to go first to give his blistered hands a break. _Guess I fell asleep._

“Oh.” Seungmin yawns and stretches, wincing as his joints pop and creak. “Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” 

“Mmm,” Jeongin hums absentmindedly, tilting his head as he shades. “You were at that house party, right? Some of my friends went. Not really my scene.” 

“Not mine either,” Seungmin agrees. “I went for my friend, and I ended up leaving pretty early.” 

“Yeah, I saw the drawings.” Jeongin hesitates, the nib of his pen hovering over the paper. From this angle, Seungmin can make out the distinct shape of his own mouth, the curve of his neck. 

Jeongin is good, obviously, because freshmen usually aren’t allowed to take advanced studio courses their first year. He looks up. “I heard from some third years that he’s your Muse?” 

Seungmin flushes. “How does _everyone_ know?” 

Jeongin snickers. “You’re like a walking legend, dude. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone with so many gallery exhibition offers under his belt before. _Everyone_ knows who you are- and Chan may have left Professor Mina’s office door open by accident this morning.” 

“Fuck,” Seungmin mutters. “This is so embarrassing. I don’t even know who he is!” 

Jeongin gives him a look that is equal parts exasperated and fond. “It really wouldn’t be that hard to find him. Just keep going to the house parties.” He scrunches up his nose and pulls out a thicker ink brush. “Or see if he’s said anything online. It’s weird- usually muses tend to stick together after their first meeting, don’t they?” 

“Yeah,” Seungmin says quietly, chest going tight. The timer goes off, signalling the end of the first session. 

He stretches and rummages around in his backpack for his water bottle. “I think I have a better chance of finding him at a party than I would on Twitter.” 

Jeongin shrugs. “You never know. Sometimes, people are closer than you think.” 

**»»————- ➴ ————-««**

**@ha14 tweeted:**

_cars planes people_

> _set satellites, fixed tracks,_
> 
> _mobius strips tangled around each other_
> 
> _never touching in their_
> 
> _pine pasted repetition and brine crusted loops_
> 
> _of metal fish streaking in a singular direction_
> 
> _in a rain slick asphalt stream_
> 
> **80K RTS** **275K LIKES**

Maybe they are. 

**»»————- ➴ ————-««**

Seungmin can feel people looking at him in the corridors of the art wing, in the campus cafe with Changbin. It’s turning into this _thing,_ his search for the angel at the party. He doesn’t know how to feel about that. 

“I just don’t get why you keep calling him an angel,” Changbin muses around a mouthful of melon cream bread, fingers fiddling with his napkin. “Is he that hot, or do you just like to talk like an unhinged but attractive CEO from a drama?” 

Seungmin glowers at him over the rim of his coffee cup. “You wouldn’t get it.” 

Changbin sighs and shakes his head sadly. “What can I say? I don’t have an artist's heart. I’m not part of that special twenty percent. I’ve never stood in the rain, cigarette in hand- _ah!”_ He ducks away from the paper cup hurtling towards his head. “No violence before noon, dude!”

“I will end you,” Seungmin vows. He pauses for a moment, fingers tracing the rough grain of the wooden table. “It’s a little like love at first sight.”

It’s more than that. It’s more than Seungmin will ever be able to put into words. It’s so all consuming, so _much_ that words fail him entirely. 

Changbin stares at him and shoves the rest of the pastry into his mouth before replying in the nicest tone of voice Seungmin has _ever_ heard come out of his mouth. “I think it might be more than love at first sight.”

“That’s not…,” Seungmin gnaws on his lower lip, face red. Changbin smirks at him. “Possible? Really? You spend 48 hours cranking out drawings of some guy’s face after he handed you a lukewarm drink at a party and you think that’s not a little romantic? Sounds like Muse material to me.”

“It’s not romantic when you put it like _that.”_

Changbin grins. “Maybe to you, lover boy.” He stifles a yawn, tugs at one of his earrings. “We can’t all have cinema worthy romances, though. Just you.”

Seungmin wrinkles his nose. “I don’t think house parties are very cinematic.” 

“They are in all the teen rom-coms.” 

“That’s not _cinematic._ That’s like, aged up High School Musical.” 

“Whatever,” Changbin says flippantly. “But hey. There’s another party this weekend- you should come if you want to hunt down your angel.” 

See, that’s the most logical option- and the most likely way to find The Boy. Seungmin knows this. He’s very aware of it, actually, but he doesn’t want to go to the party and 

  1. have The Boy ( the angel ) not be there 
  2. have him _be_ there, but unable to spark that same fire within Seungmin
  3. Seungmin says or does something highly embarrassing ( very likely ) and becomes a social pariah 



Seungmin’s never been very good at keeping a straight face, because Changbin sees something there. He leans across the table, curls his forefinger against his thumb and flicks Seungmin’s forehead with more force than necessary. 

“Ow!” Seungmin complains. 

“Stop overthinking things,” Changbin demands. Seungmin rubs his forehead; Changbin shrugs. “I know you. You need to stop overthinking things and just go for it, okay? If he’s your Muse, it’s meant to be. He’s probably looking for you, too.” 

He’s right, probably, so Seungmin closes his eyes and nods. _Just go with the flow._ He thinks of warm eyes and flannel, and a smile that rolls out easy like the tide. 

Outside, rain darkens the sidewalk and rolls down the cafe windows, and people pass by in the dozens, each and any of them angels in hiding.

**»»————- ➴ ————-««**

The door is fully off of its hinges this time- it rests against the side of the house sadly. In its place is a large piece of cardboard nailed over the entrance with the words DOOR scrawled on it in sharpie. 

“So you’re back,” Felix says, bemused. He’s wearing a cream cotton shirt and slacks, which, in Seungmin’s opinion, is far too classy for an event like this. You must really like partying.” 

“You know why I’m here.” Seungmin sighs and pushes past the other man, stomach tight with anxiety. 

Changbin shakes his head and makes an exaggerated chopping motion with the flat of his hand, unable to completely keep the grin off of his face. “Yeah, leave him alone. He’s got _soulmate_ business to fulfill.”

“I will kill you and everyone you love,” Seungmin promises, but the uncertain waver in his voice renders his threat completely ineffective.

Felix and Changbin exchange a look. 

Seungmin rolls his eyes and steps into the house. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” The party is about the same as last time, which makes it all a little better- there’s a familiarity to the chaos, and it’s oddly comforting. 

_You are very stupid for coming here,_ a small voice says inside his head, _and for someone who probably didn’t even register your existence. Yikes!_

“Shut up,” Seungmin replies-his voice coming out a few decibels louder than intended- and is deeply grateful that the dim lights in the house cover the flush in his cheeks. He keeps to the fringes of the party, like last time- and just like last time, the drink table is a bunch of cardboard boxes pressed against the far wall. 

Seungmin is starting to realize that the cardboard furniture is the only furniture the house has, aside from the singular chair in the middle of the room. 

_This is what hell looks like,_ Seungmin thinks, eyeing a vaguely familiar man clad in nothing but pleather shorts and a pair of suspenders. _This is the bad place._

The more he looks around, the more he realizes that something is off. People are looking at him with _recognition,_ cupping their hands around their mouths and speaking to their friends while looking at him. 

The weight of people's stares is not a pleasant feeling. 

“Don’t freak out, Kim Seungmin,” a voice by his ear says, “But I think they all know about your epic quest to find your One True Love.” 

Seungmin, to his credit, does not freak out. He just flinches violently and steps back onto the stranger's foot. 

“Ow,” the stranger says. “Why are you so heavy? You look deeply underfed.” 

Seungmin narrows his eyes and turns around. “Excuse me?” 

The douchey stranger- very handsome, but still a douche- puts both of his hands up placatingly. A very catlike smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way. You’re very pretty. You remind me of those designer dog plushies they sell in- what’s the store name? I forget- that expensive boutique in Gangnam.” 

A shocked laugh burbles out of Seungmin’s mouth. “That’s even worse. Maybe just stop talking?” 

“Again, ow,” the man says sadly, touching his palm to his chest. He’s dressed neatly, his honey-coloured hair well groomed. “That was so mean. I’m just trying to help.” 

Seungmin shifts his weight to one hip and crosses his arms. “Help who with what? And who _are_ you?” 

“I’m Minho,” the man states, ‘And I’m here to help you find your Muse.” He reaches into his leather jacket and pulls out a sleek ID card. “Here.”

Seungmin peers at it. MLS, the little card says at the top. GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL. LEE MINHO. 

“Muse Locator Services,” Minho says, answering Seungmin’s unspoken question. “We work with global governments to locate and document the Muse phenomenon- and, on occasion, aid pairs in finding each other again after their initial encounter.” 

“That’s a thing that happens?” Seungmin whispers, heart in his throat. “I mean, Muses not staying together after their first meeting?” 

“Yup,” Minho replies, mouth popping on the _p._ “More common than you’d think, actually. It’s a confusing moment for both of you- feelings can get a little overwhelming. The general media just doesn’t report on it much because it ruins the stereotypical Muse concept for them.” 

“Huh,” Seungmin says after a moment. “I didn’t think this would happen to me, you know.”

Minho tucks his ID card back into his jacket. “Nobody ever does. That’s what makes my job so fun! Come on, puppy boy. Let’s go have a chat. You have some forms to fill out.” 

Seungmin isn’t entirely convinced that Minho _isn’t_ trying to scam him, but he’s desperate. “Don’t call me puppy boy. You sound weird.” 

‘Ha ha,” Minho says, face straight. “So I’m going to need a copy of your birth certificate...” 

Minho is weird but he’s legitimate- Naver says so, anyway. Seungmin grudgingly goes back to the dorms with him and forks over the required paperwork, answering several vaguely uncomfortable questions in the process. 

“What was it like?” Minho stares him down, fountain pen hovering over a thick sheaf of papers. “When you first saw him, I mean.” 

Seungmin rubs the back of his neck. “You’ve probably heard this a hundred times before, but it really was like being hit by lightning. I felt like I’d woken up after a really long sleep.” He pauses. “It felt _right.”_

“Mm-hm,” Minho replies, checking off a box and then scribbling something indecipherable in the margins. “And have you had any dreams about him?” 

“Ye-es,” Seungmin says slowly, “But they felt real, too- like we were actually talking. Which I know isn’t possible, but-,” 

“You probably were.” Minho flips over a page. “Something to do with the neural pathways of the brain syncing up perfectly. Seen it just about a hundred times. You know his name?”

Seungmin’s chest aches. “No. He keeps trying to tell me, but I always wake up before I hear it.” 

Minho hums and haws, nods his head, checks off a few more boxes. “Seems like one of you has an emotional blockage.” He squints and looks up. “Probably you, actually. Once that clears up, you two should be able to find each other again. Until then, you won’t find him- no matter how hard you look.” 

Seungmin’s jaw drops. “What? How does that even work?” 

Minho shrugs. “Beats me. Nobody knows. We can only go off of past cases- it’s a Universe thing, and a you thing. Once you figure your shit out, you two should be fine.” 

Seungmin closes his open mouth, dumbstruck. “That’s literally the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. What is this, a badly written YA novel?” 

“It’s not that badly written,” Minho counters, moving the papers neatly into his briefcase. “And your case is not the worst I’ve seen. I have high hopes for you. My number is on your nightstand, if you ever need me.” 

Seungmin stands as Minho does, head buzzing. “Hey-wait. Where do I start? How do I get rid of my, uh, blockage?” 

Minho smiles wanly and gives him a thumbs up. “I’d start with some self-reflection. Or light therapy. Or LSD. Whichever you prefer! Good luck, puppy boy.” He waves and exits Seungmin’s room, closing the door quietly behind him. 

Seungmin sinks back into his chair, eyes wide, and remains like that until Changbin and Felix stumble into the apartment hours later. 

“Oh,” Felix says, looking very flustered. “Hi, Seungmin.” Changbin, slightly less drunk and altogether more perceptive, frowns. “What happened? Are you okay?” 

“Changbin,” Seungmin says hopelessly, head in his hands, “What the _fuck_ is LSD?” 

_LSD is, by definition:_

  1. _a synthetic crystalline compound, lysergic acid diethylamide, that is a potent hallucinogenic drug_
  2. _a disbanded 2000s boy group best known for wearing fursuits for their concept_



Seungmin would not like to partake in either of those. 

“He was probably joking,” Felix assures him drunkenly. Felix is so nice when he’s drunk. “I don’t think a government official would suggest illegal drugs.” 

“Yeah,” Seungmin says doubtfully, thinking of the man’s deadpan expression.“I just don’t know where to start.” 

Felix and Changbin give each other another one of those Long And Meaningful looks. “Well,” Changbin murmurs, “I mean. You are slightly emotionally constipated.” 

Seungmin gasps, offended. “I am not! I’m perfectly capable at expressing how I feel.” 

“Well, yeah, normally.” Changbin fiddles with the frayed edges of the throw blanket beside him. “I mean when it comes to opening yourself up, like, romantically? You don’t let people get close to you that way. Ever.” 

Seungmin thinks of every person he’s dated, every romantic encounter he’s ever had. It had never been _bad-_ he’s always parted with people on positive terms, always been able to tell when a relationship is close to caving in. 

_You’ve always left before having to deal with the fallout._

“I think,” Changbin says softly, like he’s reading Seungmin’s mind, “That you specifically choose to be in relationships that you know won’t last long term, because you’re afraid of really opening yourself up to someone. 

You hate being vulnerable. You are, more than anything else, terrified of being hurt so badly that you lose your will to create.” 

A heavy silence fills the room. Seungmin stares down at his hands, something hot and tight twisting at his chest. 

“Er, sorry,” Changbin backtracks, flapping one of his hands back and forth. “That was a little out of line. I’m sort of drunk, obviously. My bad.” 

“No,” Seungmin says slowly, twisting his fingers together. There’s a lump in his throat; he has to force the words out. “I think you’re right. I just- I’ve never really thought about it. I’ve never wanted to.” 

Felix reaches out and gently pats him on the knee. “Maybe start with that, then, and go from there?” 

Seungmin nods wordlessly. He’ll try, and he will. He has to. 

**»»————- ➴ ————-««**

That night, he wakes up in his dream on the beach again. Seungmin blinks, sits up. The sand is pleasantly warm against the palms of his hands. The tide is in; seafoam brushes against the tips of his toes before receding slightly. 

The air tastes like salt and sugar. Seungmin watches the sun slide into the ocean, watches the colours of the sky fade from hot pink to lilac. 

“I’m not an angel, you know.” 

Seungmin spins around. The angel is sitting on a sun-bleached piece of driftwood, one knee drawn up to his chest. “I think you are,” Seungmin says quietly, standing on shaky legs. “Why wouldn’t you be?” 

The angel grins. He looks tired but happy- there are dark rings under his eyes, and the tips of his fingers are stained with blue ink. “I’m just an ordinary person, you know. I’m nothing special.” 

“Neither am I,” Seungmin replies, and laughs when the man screws his face up. “See? It’s different when it comes from someone else.” 

“I suppose so,” the angel muses. “Why haven’t you found me yet?” 

Seungmin swallows and sits down next to him. “I’m trying. I really am. Apparently I have some issues to sort out before I can do that.” 

The angel nods, a bemused grin blooming on his face. “Something for you and the Universe to work out?” 

Seungmin snickers, relieved. “Did you have one of those officials pay you a visit?” 

The angel snorts. There's a circular piercing in his upper right earlobe. Seungmin fights against the urge to reach out and touch it; there’d be no point in doing so. “Yeah. I woke up and she was sitting on my couch- scared the shit out of me.” 

Seungmin sighs. _So they’re all weird like that, then._ “You seem tired.” 

The angel reaches out a hand and stops halfway, like he’s remembered that neither of them are really present. “You do too. Have you been sleeping much?” 

“Not well, or often. I can’t stop thinking about you,” Seungmin confesses. “Painting keeps me up- it’s like my hands have a mind of their own.” He wiggles his fingers, which are covered in flecks of paint and hello kitty bandages. “I think they might fall off soon, actually.” 

“Ah,” the angel breathes. He leans in, his eyes sparkling. “You’re an artist?” 

“Yes,” Seungmin says slowly, his brain activity momentarily fried by the proximity of the other man. 

One half of his brain is filing away the shape of the angel’s face, the slope of his nose, the way his eyelashes brush against his lower cheek, long and lush. The other half of his brain manages to scrape together a sentence. “Are you? An artist, I mean.” 

“———,” the angel says. “——. About you, —,” 

His mouth is shaping words, but all Seungmin can hear is white noise, like from a fan, or-

—he shoots straight up in his bed, chest heaving. The fan whirrs on at full speed in the far corner of the shared bedroom. The taste of sea salt lingers faintly on his tongue. 

“Fuck you,” Seungmin tells the Universe. “You suck.” 

To her credit, the Universe stays silent.

Seungmin falls back onto his bed and stares up at the glow in the dark stars he stuck onto the ceiling in first year. 

“Hey, mom,” he whispers, chest tight. “I miss you. You would know just what to do. You would give me a truth or two, right?” 

There’s no response from the plastic stars. Seungmin isn’t surprised. 

Instead of lingering on thoughts of angels and mothers long gone, he counts the dingy stars on the plaster over and over until he falls into a dreamless sleep, one hand pressed tightly against his own chest. 

»»————- ➴ ————-««

How do you tackle emotional constipation? 

Seungmin has no idea, but if he wants to meet his Muse he’ll have to slam into his feelings with the force of a high school quarterback, or something. He’s never been great with metaphors. 

He slinks into the nearest bookstore after class on Wednesday, hair and jacket damp from the light downpour outside. The bell on the door tinkles gently, alerting the sole employee in the store to his presence. 

The store is nice, if crowded, and the smell of new paper lingers faintly in the air. Seungmin waffles around the bestseller case for a few minutes before making his walk of shame to the front desk. 

“Um,” Seungmin says quietly, fingers scratching an uneven tempo on his jeans. “Hello?”

The bookstore cashier puts down his steamy paperback romance and squints at him. “Yes?” HYUNJIN <3, his name-tag says. HYUNJIN <3 is very pretty; his hair is silver and cut just above his shoulders. 

Seungmin swallows his pride. “Where is… the self help section?”

Hyunjin yawns and taps his manicured fingers on the counter. “Emotional, spiritual, mental, or sexual?”

“What,” Seungmin whispers, eyes wide. Hyunjin peers over at him, expression vaguely concerned. “Do you have erectile dysfunction?”

Mortified, Seungmin shuts his mouth and shakes his head side to side. 

Hyunjin snaps his gum and nods. “Right. We’ll just get you a book on everything else, then.” He swings his legs off the stool and ambles over to the closest bookshelf. Seungmin trails behind him like a lost duckling, cheeks warm. 

“Here,” Hyunjin murmurs, leaning in close to a particular section, fingers trailing across the shiny new spines. “I’ll give you a bunch, just to cover everything. Can’t hurt, right?” 

Seungmin shifts his weight from foot to foot. There are at least seven thick hardcover books in the other man’s arms, and while Seungmin isn’t broke, he _is_ an art student with a bigger budget for paint than for food. “I don’t think I can afford all of those,” he says honestly. “Can I just take one or two?” 

Hyunjin blinks. “Oh, no. You’re not paying for these. I’m giving them to you.” 

“For free?” Seungmin squeaks. 

“Free,” Hyunjin confirms. He smacks his gum again. “You look like you need it. No offence.” 

Seungmin lets out a short bark of laughter as they make their way back to the front of the store, surprised. “None taken. Thank you- I really appreciate it. Are you sure that you’re not going to get in trouble with your boss?” 

Hyunjin turns and shoots him an amused stare. “I own the store, so probably not. Family business and all that.” 

“Mmm.” Seungmin’s gaze slides over the new book display. There’s several copies of a small blue book; the colour of the cover is enough to draw his interest.

“See anything you like?” Hyunjin slides several books into a brown paper bag. “Those ones are hot off the press. I’d recommend _Vignettes._ The blue poetry book? It’s by one of my favorite authors.” 

There’s a little gleam in his eyes as he says this; it makes the little hairs on the back of Seungmin’s neck stand up. 

“I think I have enough material to last me at least a year,” Seungmin jokes. “But thanks anyways.” 

“No problem,” Hyunjin says softly. The silver rings on his hands sparkle as he hands the bag of books over. “I hope everything works out, Seungmin.” 

Only when Seungmin locks his front door does he realize that he never told Hyunjin his name. 

He visits the old bookstore several times after his first encounter with Hyunjin, but when Seungmin asks the other employees about him they seem just as confused as he is.

“As far as I know, we’ve never hired someone by the name of Hyunjin, ever.” The elderly shopkeeper snaps her gum. “This is a family business, you know. I know everybody who’s passed through here in the last thirty years.” 

The entire experience leaves Seungmin feeling simultaneously unsettled and comforted for a solid week after that. Maybe the Universe is looking out for him, just a little bit. 

»»————- ➴ ————-««

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**»»————- ➴ ————-««**

The last semester of his final year comes and goes like the tide. It picks up pace, snowballing into a blur of fragmented dreams and new experiences. 

Seungmin reads all the fancy hardcover books Hyunjin gave him, and understands very little. He takes Lee Minho’s advice and sees a therapist- it’s not a waste of money, as it turns out, and he finds that there are too many things to talk about in one scheduled hour. 

Changbin and Felix end up listening as well. They are never judgemental, always kind. They are warm people; Seungmin feels safe around them, and he makes sure to tell them that. 

Chan drags him to his Zumba class on Fridays for a little while, which are deeply humiliating blocks of time that Seungmin will never get back. He will never be able to ‘throw it back’, no matter how enthusiastically Zumba Expert Susan demonstrates for him. 

Felix makes him try dozens of new things- glassblowing is cool but volatile in Seungmin’s usually capable hands, and it turns out that while Seungmin cannot cook, he _can_ bake a mean variety of desserts- but that doesn’t seem to help with the blockage, either. 

And then the LSD happens. 

( Talk about a cosmic fucking joke. Changbin and Felix will never let him live it down. )

It’s an accident. It really and truly is. 

See, Seungmin has never been a big drug or alcohol person, aside from the occasional edible or cider at the bar with friends. He’s just not Into It, and that’s fine.

So it’s a complete surprise when he finds himself propositioned at a sleek and glossy club downtown.

Changbin and Felix are already dancing, swallowed up by the crowd on the dance floor. And Seungmin- Seungmin is doing what he does best: observing from one of the tables on the fringes of the action. 

And he’s not in a great mood, actually- the soulmate stuff has been grinding against his sanity for the better part of two months at this point- so he’s a bit drunk. That’s fine. He’s not going to do anything stupid, like get in a fight, or-

"You're not a big dancer?” 

Seungmin looks up from his fourth martini, surprised. There’s a girl in the chair across from him, hair long and white. The twinkle in her eyes is deeply unsettling for reasons Seungmin cannot put a finger on. “Not really.” 

“Me neither.” The girl inspects her sparkly nails casually. “You know what? I’m in a good mood tonight. My cheating ass bitch boyfriend just got arrested for public nudity. You want some candy?” 

Sober Seungmin would see the big red warning flags. Sober Seungmin looks both ways before crossing the street, and locks his front door at night. 

Drunk Seungmin does not, and it’s for this reason and this reason alone that he nods, ignoring the fifty foot neon billboard flashing DANGER! DANGER! at him. 

“Sure. What the fuck. Congratulations, by the way.” 

“Why, thank you,” the girl says cheerfully, rummaging around in her oversized bag for the alleged candy. “What a gentleman you are! Here. On the house.” 

She slides something across the table; Seungmin catches it with one forefinger.

_It could be candy_ , he hypothesizes, peering down at the thin little square. _Not a lot, but it could technically be candy._

The girl places the square on her finger, expression solemn. “Bottoms up, Kim Seungmin.” 

“Okay.” Seungmin shrugs and mimics her. The paper is slightly bitter, and dissolves on his tongue almost instantly. It’s _extremely_ shitty candy. 

Seungmin tries very hard not to show how disappointed he is. “Sorry, did I tell you my name?” He gestures at the empty glasses scattered across the table. “I’m, ah, very drunk.” 

“You didn’t,” the girl confirms, pulling a carrot out of her bag to inspect her reflection. “I already knew. I know everything about you. So will she. Have fun!” 

“Huh?” Seungmin says, flipping his hands over. His fingers wave back at him. _They probably shouldn’t be doing that_. 

Across the club, an elderly man with the head of the dog winks at him slowly. “Oh dear.” 

“You’re fine.”

Seungmin looks up, again, to find yet another woman sitting across from him. 

She’s dressed formally in a two piece suit; her tie is covered in several little mice that whack each other over the head with mallets. “I’m glad that you’ve finally decided to come give me a visit. I assume your government-assigned Muse official told you about how to reach me?” 

Seungmin blinks at her, this strange woman. Thinking is like swimming through pea soup- not that he’s ever swam through pea soup before, mind you- but it’s the only metaphor that comes to mind. Where was he? Oh, _ye_ s. Muse official. MLS. Lee Minho.

( _Minho smiles and gives him a thumbs up. “I’d start with some self-reflection. Or light therapy. Or LSD. Whichever you prefer!_ )

“No way,” Seungmin whispers. The realization hits him with the force of a tsunami wave. The martini glasses sway across the table in a conga line. “I’m doing LSD? Right now? I’m on drugs?” 

“Well, yes,” the woman says matter-of-factly, her glossy ponytail twirling around her shoulders like a bastardized cobra. “In any other circumstance I would never recommend drug use. But this specific one allows me to meet people like you when absolutely necessary.” 

She checks her watch. Seungmin is certain that it wasn’t there moments before. “And this is very necessary. You’ve met your Muse, yes?” 

Seungmin nods. There’s a pair of leprechauns swaying together on the dance floor. It’s very distracting. 

The woman smiles wanly and snaps her fingers in front of his face. “I know it’s hard to concentrate, but please try. It’s not often that you- or anyone- gets to speak with the Universe.” 

The dots connect very slowly. “ _You’re_ the Universe?” 

She shrugs. “Technically. This is only what your brain can handle seeing.” 

"You _suck,”_ Seungmin blurts. He claps his hands over his mouth, horrified, but the Universe only laughs, low and melodic. “It’s fine. You’re allowed to be angry. I do write all the stories, after all.” 

She leans in. There’s a tattoo on her collarbone; Seungmin watches as it shifts uneasily under the neon strobe lights. “And yours is especially interesting. You haven’t been able to find your other half, have you?” 

“No,” Seungmin says through gritted teeth, “and not for lack of trying.” 

“I know,” the Universe says placatingly, hands spread. “But your other half has been looking for far longer than you. Far, far longer.” 

“How long?” 

“It’s not my story to tell. Not anymore. And neither is yours.” She picks up one of the gyrating martini glasses, a bemused expression on her face. “You want to hear the truth? A real, solid truth?” 

“You sound like my mother.” Seungmin pauses, something sharp twisting within his chest. “My mother _did_ say that.” 

Before she got sick- in the hospital all day and night sick- she would give him those truths. Every night before bed, she would brush his hair back and whisper an answer into his ear.

Random, obscure things, but all truths. He used to collect them like stars and store them in his dreams. 

“Yes,” the Universe agrees. There’s a wistful look on her face. “She did. There were other things she wished she had said to you, before she left. Would you like to hear one of them? A truth?” 

“Please,” Seungmin whispers, and the word comes out broken. “Please tell me.” 

When the Universe speaks again, she speaks in the voice of his mother. The words come out crackling faintly, as though it’s playing off an old record player. 

“You deserve to be loved, Seungmin. You are worthy of it, and it you.” She pauses. “And I love you. I will always love you, little bear.” 

There’s a warm simplicity to the words; there is no doubt in Seungmin’s mind that they’re his mother’s. 

A tear slides down his cheek, hot and wet. There’s a subtle shifting deep inside of him- an uncoiling, like the Universe has reached inside of him and popped out a spring so everything can run smoothly again. 

It makes Seungmin want to cry, or dance, or throw paint at a big, empty canvas. “Thank you.” It’s all he can say- because really, what else can you say to something like that? 

The Universe nods and sinks back into her chair. “I think it is enough for you to understand. Go find him, Kim Seungmin. He is waiting for you- very patiently, I might add.” 

Seungmin squints at her. “What do you mean by that?” 

“Time will surely tell,” the Universe says mischievously, and then she is the young girl from before, with her oversized handbag. And voila! Our time together is up.”

There’s a name-tag pinned to her blazer that looks suspiciously like HYUNJIN <3\. 

She stands and slings her bag over her shoulder. Behind her, a man punches a four headed chicken in the nose. Party In The USA by Miley Cyrus plays from speakers in the floor. “Enjoy the time you have, boy.” 

And before Seungmin can say anything she’s gone- melted away into the crowd, perhaps, or taken by the alien spacecraft hovering overhead.

“The aliens,” Seungmin whispers, reaching a hand out at the lights. “They’ve finally come for me.” 

One of the aliens recoils. “What the fuck?” 

“Do you think someone spiked his drink?” The other alien asks. 

“What? Nah. Look at his pupils, dude. They’re the size of dinner plates. Seungmin’s probably tripping serious balls right now.” 

Suddenly there are hands on his shoulders, lifting him up. “Wait,” Seungmin mutters. “The unicorn…. the unicorn promised me a dance…” 

One of the aliens pats him on the shoulder comfortingly. “I know. Don’t worry- the unicorn will be here next time. You have finals tomorrow, by the way.” 

“Fuck,” Seungmin says. 

“Fuck,” the alien agrees. 

Seungmin dreams that night, but not of the angel. He dreams of his mother, and of handfuls of brightly shining stars. He falls upwards through sheets of fine silk, arms and legs pinwheeling in slow motion. 

“Don’t worry,” a disembodied voice says. “You’re just going through changes.” 

And he is. 

Here’s another truth: your heart is always growing, even after your body has stopped. 

»»————- ➴ ————-««

Seungmin wakes up the next morning with a terrible pounding in his head, but he makes it to his finals. He passes with flying colours.

( “It’s like he’s possessed,” one of the professors says in the faculty room later, away from snooping students. “The way he draws… I’ve truly never seen anything like it.” )

Changbin and Felix mock him every single day about his LSD adventure for the next month. Seungmin doesn’t have the heart to tell them what he really encountered on his trip. 

“You actually can’t tell them,” Minho informs him over the phone on one such day. “You’d be breaking the NDA you signed, and then we’d have to arrest you. Or fine you.” 

Seungmin blanches. “When did I sign an NDA?”

“You did,” Minho says, and then, after a moment: “Actually, I may have signed that for you. We were in a rush; everything was a blur.” 

That’s probably illegal. Seungmin doesn’t really give a shit at this point. 

“I am going to run you over the next time I see you,” Seungmin promises. Minho laughs. “I don’t think you will, puppy boy.” 

He _still_ doesn’t know what Minho was trying to imply: that Seungmin wouldn’t run him over, or that Seungmin would never see him again.

There’s no point in pondering over it, though, because if Minho wants to show up again, he will. 

“That man is a force of nature, all bottled up in a person’s body,” he tells the angel one night, who laughs. “He could be. You never know.” 

The dreams still carry on, but they improve- Seungmin doesn’t wake up cursing the Universe, doesn’t arrive back to reality with tears on his pillowcase- and it’s enough, for now. The angel has patience.

Seungmin decides to believe the Universe on this one. 

Seungmin graduates, and as he makes his way across the stage to accept his degree and shake hands with the dean he feels incredibly light, like a weight has dissolved off of his chest. 

“Congratulations,” the dean says tiredly. 

“Thank you,” Seungmin replies, and means it. As he exits stage right, he can’t help but feel as though someone in the gathered crowd is watching him. He sweeps his gaze over the crowd, but can’t find anyone new gathered there. 

»»————- ➴ ————-««

Seungmin has his first exhibition two months after graduating in a renovated warehouse in downtown Seoul. The ceilings are high, and parts of the worn wooden walls have been replaced with glass. It’s fancy. 

He’s nervous, because this is big. Really big. Make or break your career kind of big. He’s not quite certain what is drawing people to the exhibition- his art, or the fact that he’s one half of a Muse- but he’s not complaining either way. 

There will be hundreds of people- affluent creators and investors- here, for him. Seungmin exhales lightly and takes a couple steps back, arms crossed. 

His exhibition is _love._ That’s the theme. There was no other choice for him, no option.

Scattered across the warehouse are floor to ceiling canvases, each one tied to the other. There are paintings of himself laughing, paintings of Changbin’s hands holding a sudsy plate, a painting of his mother’s favourite pair of dancing shoes. 

The other paintings- the majority of them- are of the angel. He has wings in most of the paintings: they bleed out of his back and fill up the empty spaces on the canvas. In the golden stage lights he looks 3D- looks like he could stretch and step out of the wooden frames at any moment. 

People love him the most, and this comes to no surprise to Seungmin. _I love him the most, too._ This is no longer a revelation, or something to blush at: it has been four months since their first encounter, and since then Seungmin has settled into his feelings with relative ease. 

“You’re making something very special here,” a curator tells him, pressing a shiny black business card into the palm of his hand. “If you’re interested in getting your art into gallery exhibitions overseas, just let me know. It would be an honour.” 

“I can _see_ it,” an elderly woman says to him at one point, palm pressed to her chest. Seungmin is fairly certain that she wandered in off the street. “The tension in the painting. The ache. You can see it in his eyes.” She points at him with one gnarled finger. “I can see it in yours, too.” 

There are people sending her disapproving looks, because she’s not dressed to the nines or wearing her money around her neck. It doesn’t matter, and he says so. “You are the only person who understood,” he says softly. “Which one would you like?” 

“A _painting?”_

“Yes.” 

She gives him a shocked sort of smile. “For free?” He smiles back. “For free.” 

The night is filled with people, and cheque books, and Seungmin swallowing bubbly champagne to suppress the nervous twisting in his stomach. 

Most of his paintings are sold- the ones of his angel are a hot item. Go figure. Chan is there for a little while, and Changbin. They’re proud of him. Felix pops by to eat some cake and press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

Seungmin is proud too, but as the exhibition winds down and people leave, he can’t help but feel disappointed. For what, he doesn’t know: it’s not like he was expecting anything out of the ordinary to happen. 

“You look sad,” someone says. Seungmin freezes, champagne glass in hand. He doesn’t dare turn around- if he’s dreaming again, he doesn’t want to wake up.

“I don’t know why, though. I think you’ve done pretty well tonight, if the empty walls are anything to go by.” 

“Yeah,” Seungmin manages, fingers shaking around the glass. “Yeah, I sold most of the paintings. You should’ve come earlier; I think you would have liked to see them.” 

The voice is right behind him, now. If Seungmin concentrates he can feel the heat from the angel’s skin, feel the rush of warm air hit the shell of his ear as the other man speaks. “I’m sure you have more. I have pages and pages of poems about you- they’re the ones I couldn’t possibly publish. They felt too special.” 

Seungmin makes a small sound as the angel carefully ( so carefully!) threads his fingers through his. They’re warm and calloused and _real:_ every atom in Seungmin’s body shakes at the sensation of it. 

“I’ve been waiting for you to look at me properly my whole life,” the angel whispers, his voice shaking with the intensity of his words. “So please notice me now, Seungmin. Just look.” 

_What does that mean?_

“Are you real?” Seungmin asks instead. The angel laughs; his fingers slide from Seungmin’s palm and dance up his wrist, across the bow of his forearm. They slide up up up until they’re curled against the side of Seungmin’s face, solid and trembling slightly as well. 

_He’s scared, too._

“I think this time it’s for real,” the angel murmurs. “Please?” 

Seungmin swallows, hard, and lifts his gaze. There’s that electricity again, sharp and wild and always striking the same place twice. 

The angel stands in front of him in a beat up leather jacket and denim jeans. There are combat boots on his feet, and the faint scent of wind in his hair. He’s as breathtaking as he was four months ago in the dim light of someone else’s house. His hair is longer, smile more lopsided- but he’s _here._

“Oh,” Seungmin hears himself saying. “ _Oh.”_

The angel laughs, warm and rich. Seungmin is struck dumb by it- by him, this myth of a man who only seemed to exist in his dreams. “This has been a long time coming, Kim Seungmin. Aren’t you going to ask me for your name?” 

_( Aren’t you going to ask me for a truth tonight? His mother whispers. Another truth to take to the stars? )_

“Hello,” Seungmin whispers, eyes wide. “My name is Kim Seungmin. What’s yours?” 

The angel smiles. “Hi, Kim Seungmin. My name is Han Jisung, and I’m _so_ pleased to finally meet you.” 

Oh, and does it feel _right._

They opt out of a handshake in lieu of a kiss.

It’s the most natural feeling in the world. Jisung pulls Seungmin against him, his hands all over Seungmin’s back and neck and face, like he can’t get enough of him. Like he’s been waiting forever for this exact moment. 

Maybe he has. 

Seungmin melts under it. He melts like a cherry popsicle in the heat of summer, sweet and drippy and almost dizzy with the rush of it all. 

Jisung’s mouth is warm and clever. He smells like fresh paper and coffee beans. His eyelashes flicker against Seungmin’s brow when they kiss. The air smells like sea salt, even though the ocean is miles away.

Seungmin takes all of these things in and files them away for later, to transcribe onto paper. As Seungmin leans back into the kiss and tentatively slides his arms around Jisung’s shoulders something _clicks_ into place. 

They both make a surprised noise and step back. 

“Did you feel that?” They both say it at the same time. Seungmin watches as Jisung runs his hands through his hair, fingers shaking. 

_Don’t be nervous,_ he wants to say, but the words won’t come out. He reaches out and snags Jisung’s fingers instead, and pulls the other man into the circle of his arms. Jisung heaves a deep, shuddering sigh and tucks his face into the crook of Seungmin’s neck. 

“I think,” Seungmin says eventually, “That the bond was sealed.” 

Jisung makes a muffled noise of approval. “Good.” 

Seungmin laughs wetly. “I’m glad, too.” He hesitates. “What did you mean when you said you’d been waiting for me for a long time?” 

Jisung sits up. “Oh! I guess you wouldn’t remember.” The hair on one side of his head is flat from where it’s been pressed against Seungmin’s chest. Seungmin itches to muss it up, so he does. 

“The first time I saw you,” Jisung continues, looking equal parts amused and content with Seungmin’s fingers in his hair, “Was at a little cafe when I was about seven or eight.” 

Seungmin’s fingers freeze. Jisung grins. “Don’t start feeling bad, now. Can I keep talking?” 

Head buzzing, Seungmin nods. Jisung presses the crown of his head against Seungmin’s palm. 

“The only reason we were even in the area was because of this torrential rainstorm. It came out of nowhere: my mother was furious because her best summer dress was getting ruined. We ended up in this tiny bakery.” 

Jisung grabs Seungmin’s wrist and gently detangles his fingers from his hair. “It was directly across from a cemetary.” 

“Ah,” Seungmin says, sounding very much like the words have been punched from his mouth. 

Jisung keeps his gaze fixated on the tiny spaces where his and Seungmin’s fingers overlap and meet. “It must have just ended, because people were crossing the street and walking on the sidewalk past the shop. I was bored out of my mind, so I went over to the window to watch.” He looks up, expression awestruck. “And that’s when I saw you.” 

»»————- ➴ ————-««

It goes something like this: 

Two boys, bound by fate, stand on either side of a bakery’s glass window. 

The boy on the inside sees the boy on the outside, and something in his chest implodes. It feels like the whole world has changed, in just one shining moment. He has never felt a joy like this; he nearly glows with it. 

The boy on the other side of the glass pauses for a moment before carrying on. He is swept away by a sea of black hats and dresses. 

The boy in the bakery, previously euphoric, is shattered. 

_How can something like this happen, if their meeting was fated_? You might ask. Good question. Here’s the truth:

The sudden and torrential rainstorm was unexpected. The bright lights of the bakery had been replaced that morning, dousing the interior of the shop in bright gold light. 

These two unforeseen factors, combined with the other boy’s intense grief at the passing of his mother, caused a brief anomaly in an otherwise textbook Muse scenario. 

The boy on the outside, unable to see anything other than his own miserable reflection, turns away, completely unaware of what he has just missed.

The boy on the inside is heartbroken. He doesn’t understand what he has missed, either, but he will. 

It will take thirteen years and four months for them to find each other again, but they do. 

Happy ever after. The end!

They’re probably in the throes of love right now, as we speak.” 

Lee Minho closes his case folder. He pulls out a big red stamp from his messenger bag, pushes a ruby-red CLOSED into the right edge of the paper. 

“Sorry, my job takes my work off the clock sometimes. Any other questions?” 

“This is the strangest Tinder date I’ve ever been on,” Bang Chan admits, leaning forward. “But I have to admit: my curiosity is piqued. They sound almost familiar, those two. Where did you say the funeral was held?” 

Minho grins at him, all teeth. He’s far too overdressed for this restaurant. Chan’s not complaining. “I’m afraid that’s classified information.” 

“I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement,” Chan replies. He’s not really serious, but he likes playing games, and he wants to play with Minho. He has a feeling Minho will bite back. 

“Sure,” Minho agrees. “If you can catch me.” He stands up, sending his drink flying. Chan sputters, wipes at his face- and looks up to see Minho running out of the restaurant, which is now silent. 

Chan musters all the dignity he can. He’s still a bit tipsy from all that champagne during Seungmin’s exhibition. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” he says, addressing both the customers and the kitchen staff, “I have me a weird fucking man to catch.”

Luck will not be on Lee Minho’s side tonight: Chan got into university on an athletic scholarship. 

An elderly woman across the room wolf whistles and waves her spoon in the air. “Go get him, baby!” She’s immediately chastised by her daughter and grandchildren. 

Chan grins, slaps down a wad of bills on the table, and _runs._

»»————- ➴ ————-««

“I feel terrible,” Seungmin admits. “I should have- I don’t know. I don’t understand how I didn’t see you.”

Jisung shrugs and unties the laces of Seungmin’s loafers absentmindedly. They probably make quite a sight, leaning against the bare wall in an empty warehouse. Two boys, both on the same side of the glass this time.

“It doesn’t matter, honestly. You certainly did contribute to my writing, you know- and my angsty teenage years. It’s hard to take people to prom when you know your other half is out there somewhere.” 

“Noooo,” Seungmin squeaks, and allows his head to fall onto Jisung’s shoulder. “That’s terrible.” He pauses. “Writing?” A vague memory faintly tickles the back of his brain. Something about a bookstore…

Jisung flushes. Seungmin stares. “Well, I’m sort of popular. I write poetry? My latest collection was called _Vignettes_.” He wrinkles his nose. “It did really well, actually, but you probably didn’t read it- I don’t think you would have been able to.” 

_A small, sky blue book rests on the table by the register. Hyunjin slides several books into a brown paper bag. “Those ones are hot off the press. I’d recommend Vignettes. The blue poetry book? It’s by one of my favourite authors.”_

A small burble of laughter escapes Seungmin’s mouth. “Oh! I almost did. The Universe was trying to lead me in the right direction, I think.” he grins and tugs at Jisung’s sleeve. “Guess I’ll have to catch up with everyone else.” 

Jisung laughs, head tipped back. “Just don’t read it in front of me. There’s a limit to how much humiliation I can take.” There’s something artistic in the way he moves, Seungmin notes, in the way the line of his neck curves back and the long brush of his hair over his eyes. 

Seungmin’s fingers twitch- ah, and there it is. The _compulsion_ : the itch to draw and push and pull charcoal over a blank piece of paper, over and over, until time is spun like thread through his fingers. 

Until another angel is born. 

“I’m going to,” Seungmin says firmly. “We’re going to.” 

Jisung’s mouth ticks up to one side. “Right now?” 

Seungmin wonders how many expressions he can elicit from the other man. He’s going to find out. 

“Right now.” He grabs Jisung by the wrist and together they march out of the quiet warehouse, stumbling a little. It’s snowing gently outside; the whole block is soft and blanketed in white. 

This late, there is nobody out, save for a pigeon or two. It feels as if the world is collectively holding its breath- or perhaps that’s just Seungmin, who exhales quietly as Jisung pulls him in for another kiss. 

“I love you,” Jisung informs him between kisses. “Like, really love you. Seungmin makes an affirming noise and places a kiss just below his jaw, and snickers when Jisung shivers. “I really love you too, Han Jisung.” 

“Thank god for that,” Jisung says dryly, a sardonic glint in his eyes. “Here I was, thinking that maybe this whole soulmate thing was one-sided after all. Guess I won’t have to go home and drown my sorrow in hard liq-,” 

He’s interrupted by Seungmin’s mouth, which is, you know. Not the worst way to be interrupted. The kiss is harder this time- it’s raw, and hungry, and _intense_ . Jisung shivers through it, winds his fingers in the hair at the nape of Seungmin’s neck. It’s good. It’s so, _so_ good. 

It’s lightning. There’s no other way to describe it, this electric kiss on the same side of the glass. 

Seungmin will go to bed and wake up to the thunderbolt shock of it every day for the rest of his life. He’s quite looking forward to it. 

They don’t make it to the bookstore that night, but that’s fine. They’ll get around to it, eventually. They have nothing but time. 

»»————- ➴ ————-««

> _you are a song_
> 
> _the melody is_
> 
> _nebulous sheets of silk_
> 
> _thin and twirling_
> 
> _dying summerlight paints them gold_
> 
> _as they touch your face, caress your mouth_
> 
> _the hint of lost air, never enough to cause panic, but enough that it makes your head spin, makes your toes curl in the still-warm grass_
> 
> _dance with me, the sun says. he winks at you through the pine trees on the horizon. remember how you were as a child. can you taste that light you used to carry within your chest?_
> 
> _you don’t know, but you want to so,_
> 
> _raise your arms. dance through the silk_
> 
> _slide through your fingers_
> 
> _butter-soft and chilly_
> 
> _against the curve of your inner thigh, the arch of your foot as you dance_
> 
> _pulling at those strings to summon the ghost (god) sleeping inside your chest_
> 
> _you try, but_
> 
> _you are no longer who you were_
> 
> _and the song, powerful enough to tug at the empty places inside of you that you forgot about_
> 
> _cannot push back the steady ticking hands of time_
> 
> _the silk is gone._
> 
> _so is the sun, but;_
> 
> _the stars are here_
> 
> _moon is out now, soft and understanding_
> 
> _gentle in her tone as she reminds you that_
> 
> _tomorrow, you can try again_
> 
> _where the outside clock hands will move forward and your inner one backwards_
> 
> _magnets. it is the only option you have_
> 
> _so, tomorrow you will dance_
> 
> _again,_
> 
> _and you will find me_
> 
> _i know this_
> 
> _in the same way i know the song of you._
> 
> -Excerpt from _Vignettes,_ by bestseller and award-winning author Han Jisung.

**Author's Note:**

> yes, well. [ checks watch ] this was very strange to write and im not entirely sure i was even writing it: i blacked out for twenty hours and when i woke up this was lounging in my google docs. thanks for reading, though! also therapy is for everyone. i highly recommend it <3
> 
> lemme know what u think, and be sure to check out the other SEUNGFEST TWENTY- TWENTY works
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/bIuntchan)   
>  [cc](https://curiouscat.me/spearbiz)


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